


Queen on Her Color

by No_Yes_Always



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s01e06 Adjournment, F/M, It's unrated because I haven't decided yet, Living Together, Next level self-indulgence, Only One Bed, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Someone Had To, Yes I wrote this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/No_Yes_Always/pseuds/No_Yes_Always
Summary: Beth huffs, releasing him with a quick one-two drum of her fingers next to his pulse, quick and sure where his had been flourishingly light. His arm drops to his side, like the energy he needs to move it is bleeding from where she touched him. “I am not sleeping on your floor.”
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 15
Kudos: 139





	1. Night I

**Author's Note:**

> I did a thing. I had to.

The king is the tallest piece in chess. 

Every other building in New York looks like a pawn, laid out on the other side of their king, ready to advance the board. If the Empire State Building is the king, then its queen is the Chrysler Building, the next tallest. At least she’s on the correct side. 

Chess can be beautiful. Every bright golden light against the black sky reminds her of that. Benny shifts next to her, and if he were the king, and she, the queen, then one of them would be in the wrong place. 

Beth doesn’t ask him any questions about the organization of the city, but takes it in on her own. It’s one thing to commit to learning chess, _training_ with him. That doesn’t mean she has to ask him about _everything._ She’s amazed he doesn’t capitalize on the opportunity to indulge in the sound of his own voice, but then he yawns his way through another intersection, and she almost wishes he would; at least his monologuing would keep him awake. 

When they _do_ arrive, Benny leads her down, instead of up, past a wall of garbage bags, and down _another_ set of stairs. Then he hangs up his hat — his _crown,_ she corrects, newly sullen — and follows it with his jacket, and her feet carry her on a tour of the side passages, the bathroom, and it’s settled; no king would live like this. Still, he offers her space for her clothes. 

And then, Beth stops before a pile of cushions, hands planted firmly at her waist. Turns. Lets him appear behind her, boots smacking against the bare floor, not with an explanation, but with an air pump. 

“I thought I was going to get a couch.” 

“Well, I said living room.” Strands of his hair cage over one eye. She wants to fix them. “Just gotta,” He does it himself, and it doesn’t help at all, “pump it up.” He treats the pump like a stair step, and each impact makes it wheeze like a dying goat. 

It does not, however, appear to be having any effect. 

Benny stops, and they stand side by side, critically eying the stubbornly flat mattress. His lip curls at the thing. “That’s… great.” 

Her eyes slide up to his, trailing aimlessly over his chest, his necklaces, head tilting to the side. “What’s your next plan?” 

He _hesitates,_ and she watches his fingers twitch, like he’s looking for a piece to move. They dance at the back of his neck, and his arm doesn’t look so thin at that angle. The veins stand out, and she follows one of them along his forearm, then reaches out and covers it with her own hand. Not holding, just a cuff above his wrist. “Benny.” 

His eyes follow the motion, and he blinks rapidly, halting and dazed like she just took his queen and that _wasn’t_ part of his trap. His fingers come loose, arm bending at the elbow to extend out to her, lets her keep him cuffed. “Really?” 

Beth huffs, releasing him with a quick _one-two_ drum of her fingers next to his pulse, quick and sure where his had been flourishingly light. His arm drops to his side, like the energy he needs to move it is bleeding from where she touched him. “I am not sleeping on your floor.” 

Damn him, somehow he almost manages to look offended, even though there’s no other idea he could possibly have. He’s entirely trapped, and they both know it. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and when he does, there’s a rougher quality to his voice. _Raging inwardly,_ Beth thinks, knows that roll against his tongue. “Of course not.” _He sees the check._ She doesn’t starve for air, doesn’t seem to _need_ to breathe for a moment. “Come on.” He flicks his head to the side, indicating for her to follow, and she _knows_ it’s the wrong time to touch him again. 

She follows. 

“You remember what I told you?” 

“Forget it.” 

And they lay side by side in the dark; Beth on the left, Benny on the right. Automatic. She doesn’t think either of them cares to tempt fate by saying another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I needed to. I didn't think anyone would mind.  
> First of five parts, probably. Maybe.  
> Rating, not fully decided yet.  
> Comments and kudos are lovely.  
> XX


	2. Week I

It takes about a day for the first ticket to show up on his car. 

It takes twice that long for her to kick him in her sleep, which seems like a success. But, that’s the third night.

* * *

Beth knows what another person feels like. She _knows_ the weight and heat, they tickle up under her skin without the need for touch, like a good check. One that she _needs_ to make, before the other person feels her, too. 

She’s less sure of _where_ she is. The check pattern that runs together and blurs when she squints at it isn’t the ceiling, like she first expects; sometimes she does see the board, and sometimes she dreams it, it’s the _pieces_ she needs the pill for — the scene set, but without its players. No move. It’s the wall, she realizes, eyes tracing past the typical set of eight down one multi-colored row. The colors don’t blend because of her, they just _are._

His shifting doesn’t make her jump. It’s the reason she’s alert at all; aware of the presence at her side before she could muster the will to care, to be bothered by the knowledge. Her head turns minutely, catching the glint of a golden tumble of hair and bare chest, and Benny Watts isn’t in her bed, _she’s in his._

“Morning.” He says, after a moment, and there’s no use in pretending not to be awake, because he’s not asking. It isn’t even _Good morning;_ the fact that it’s morning is a statement. It’s morning, and they’re here, and that’s… 

“Morning.” Beth answers, rolls to look at him properly, because he’s refused any semblance of a game; seems, himself, more interested in flashing her a grin that lacks any sharpness at the teeth. _Amused,_ she realizes. The tilt to his head is less pronounced without the hat to give him away, but she thinks she sees a twinkle across his eyes, that only becomes more pronounced as he smoothly shrugs on a _robe,_ patterned with flowers and remaining open at the chest, never turning away from her. 

She _laughs,_ eyes dragging along the hem, up to the chains around his neck, and he rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll make coffee, because that’s _important,”_ and her eyes narrow to match his, “then we can start.” 

“I need a shower.” 

Benny tosses the door open on his way out, and gestures off to the side, to a corner she was really hoping he wouldn’t. “She’s all yours.” He leaves it open behind him, and disappears out of frame. 

… The rest of the apartment doesn’t have walls. 

Beth shakes her head, sitting up and allowing one of her knuckles to press sharply up against her eye. She never took him up on the offered closet space, but it occurs to her that he has to have towels somewhere, so that’s still where she goes first. He’s right, there is a lot of room in the space, next to his black, and some of what might even be _gray._ She finds towels at the very bottom, and is genuinely surprised that there are two of them, an odd surplus for an apartment that barely has _windows._

_Who else does he put on that air mattress?_

For a moment, she imagines that Benny is friends with Borgov, visualizes the large Russian man lying dead straight in Benny’s living room, polished shoes sticking out from under the blanket tucked primly under his chin, then she adjusts for the mattress’s actual value, and unceremoniously drops him flat on the concrete floor. She’s still smiling when she emerges to root around for her own clothes. 

She’s wearing pajamas, hardly in the same state of dress he is, but she’s still glad his back is turned as she makes her decisions, adding a mohair sweater when she prickles at the cold beneath her feet. It’s one thing in sleep, and it’s another in daylight. Not since her first tournament, when she had very little choice in the matter, has she allowed any of her opponents to see her at anything other than the very best she has. Her hair is enough as it is. 

The thought that Benny _isn’t_ her opponent, not _now,_ clashes against the rehashing of the question, _who is the other towel for,_ and the combination of the two is enough that, when the first spray of water is colder than Beth is expecting, she gives a small yelp, and jumps, and she thinks she hears him laugh from the kitchen. Though the eventual heat soothes the initial goosebumps from her skin, the original jolt of nerves doesn’t fade away as easily, and she listens in vain for any other sounds that might indicate his presence in the room. He humors her with a single clatter, just as she shuts off the water. _Still in the kitchen._

Wrapped in a towel, hair slightly damp and probably dripping on his floor (safety hazard) is _not_ more dignified than her pajamas, but how she feels about it doesn’t really matter, because when she appears from behind the curtain in exactly that condition, Benny’s facing her directly. 

They must make a ridiculous picture, him with his robe and her with his towel, and they almost _gawk_ at each other for several seconds. He watches her appraisingly, eyes tracing smoothly down until she’s convinced he’s counting every drop of water either fallen or quickly on its way. She can feel them slipping down her legs, running along her back where she hasn’t pulled the towel quite tight to the curve of her spine. Benny seems to be able to see them all. 

With half an effort, she manages a smile. The hem, where she holds the towel to her chest slips, slightly, as she lifts her hand and waves to him to turn around. The smooth turn back only accentuates the pull of his eyes along that line, as he smirks at the just visible corner of his mouth. 

So does she. 

* * *

The first night, it had been all she could do to change before going to sleep. Exhaustion had clung to every limb; she knew they had left earlier than Benny had wanted, but she could hardly imagine extending the day further. Putting on pajamas to crawl into bed had required remarkably little conscious thought; something that, at the time, Beth had been grateful for. 

Tonight, however, is another story. She’s been relatively in her element, since they began _training_ properly. Benny doesn’t play her directly, and she thinks genuinely that it has little to do with their both knowing she’ll beat him again. _Luchenko-Uhlmann, Borgov-Penrose,_ they played games already long resigned. The ceiling remained blank, while she focused on Benny and his black pieces at the other side of the board, moving in an intricate dance with Uhlmann-Borgov-Beth’s white. 

_“You replay the game, so you can feel the wins for yourself,”_ he told her, and that’s true, but she can’t help but think she’s missed part of the point. A good victory should settle in at the bones, a nice weight heady in an entirely different way than the weightlessness of the pills. Right now, it would take a bottle of something to weigh her down properly. Some of the missing weight settles more heavily on her shoulders. 

She hasn’t _won_ anything. And the knowledge of that seems to burn through her blood, rushing it up into an uncomfortable warmth beneath her skin, like the crashing of ocean waves she’s never _really_ seen. 

Beth turns over. Taps his warm calf with a delicately pointed toe. Watches the shift that starts at his shoulders until Benny faces her properly, dark eyes pooling warmth _more_ noticeable in the stark cold of the room. The hair falls over his face, a lone strand catching light to glitter against the shadowy color. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask. Only waits. 

“I didn’t win.” She tells him. 

She thinks he might just roll back over. Suddenly, it’s a rush to tell him, to explain, spurred on by the heat flush across her face she really doesn’t think he can see. 

“We played the games.” She says. He blinks. “They weren’t mine, I didn’t have to think about what I had to do to win.” 

“You see the motions,” Benny answers. There’s the rougher edge that seems to touch his voice only at particular times. She isn’t sure whether this time is for sleep, or not, if he pulled more satisfaction out of the day than she did. “Everything that builds up to the win.” 

“But I _didn’t,”_ Beth repeats, emphatically, preparing to spring up and make her point further. “I didn’t play a game, and I didn’t win one. I watched one.” 

The corner of Benny’s mouth works thoughtfully, at that. It’s a point she wouldn’t expect anyone else to understand, in the sense she _needs_ him to. Because he’s teaching her, and if the method leaves her flushed and unsatisfied in the night, they aren’t going to get anywhere. _Flushed and unsatisfied…_ The heat spans further up the back of her neck, pulses at the beat of his graveled hum, as he sits up before she does. 

They play in the dark, sitting up in his bed and guided largely by the sharp white of the checks, and his pieces. She wins. 

“Satisfied?” He laughs, collects the pieces on the board to leave it on the floor, then reaches out and smoothly guides her back down. 

_Is she?_ “Yes.” She says. “Thank you.” 

The warmth in her chest isn’t uncomfortable, like the heat of before. It flutters gently as it spreads from the center, tucks neatly over her like a good blanket. 

(He tells her she kicked him on the third night, and he almost fell off laughing. She doesn’t really believe the second part. Not satisfied then, either.)

* * *

They play chess the next several nights, after walking through pamphlet games for a large portion of the day. He quizzes her on footnotes. She kicks him, hits his thigh rather than the knee she was aiming for, and automatically tenses to jump further out of his personal space. Laughs, when he laughs, stops when he turns away from her, his attention swinging with an unsurprising neatness to the contents of the kitchen. 

Rather abysmal. She knows. Still, he leaves his hands on his hips, staring as though the refrigerator has offended him personally. She imagines it’s a very similar expression to the one he still occasionally shoots at the board, in the dark. Then, like now, she can’t see it and also knows it’s there. 

“I haven’t left.” Beth says, coming up behind him. He only half turns his head, relaxes the sharp corner at his elbow to give her space. It’s true, the furthest she’s strayed from his bomb shelter in the past seven days is up the stairs and settled on the steps in front of someone else’s house. 

“Hm?” 

“I haven’t left, and I don’t know where anything is. I can’t buy food.” 

He’s also out of eggs, which she thinks might have annoyed him earlier had he bothered with eating anything. He _didn’t,_ and it’s _odd,_ he’s hardly the type of person she would expect to push away food, seems as though he’d have a better balance than she does. A better sense of what works, and what doesn’t. Most of their meals have been balanced on their laps, or quickly consumed standing in the kitchen around a verbal game. It’s not as though she usually eats that much either, especially while practicing, but she’s still been careful to eat at least two reasonable meals a day, even with his twitching fingers dancing impatiently at the corner of her vision. 

It’s like it’s the first time he’s given it any real thought, and while Beth watches the work of his mouth, she decides that’s agitating him _more_ than the fridge itself. He didn’t _think,_ about something, and now he’s at a loss. She isn’t poised correctly to dig him out again. 

It doesn’t take him too long. 

That’s the difference, between Benny and the others. Maybe between Benny and her. 

He sighs first, though, and it still sounds strangely like admitting defeat, rather than a surprise move with a rook he hasn’t touched since the game opening. “Alright. Let’s fix that.” And, when she doesn’t know how to react to that, specifically, he elaborates with a gentle touch to her shoulder, as he passes her; “We’re going out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I was opening up to do some writing and finish this (I _thought,_ silly me) One of the things that randomly popped up on YouTube was this like, ambiance video, _you've fallen in with love with the prince you're supposed to assassinate._
> 
> I mean... Some parallels? Maybe. Hm. 
> 
> Anyway. Thanks so much for reading, kudos and comments are always appreciated, tell me if you have any particular thoughts for what *could* happen, while I go for more domestic packed in with tension. We're definitely headed for more in the next "week," this first one I was more trying to do some establishing, mess with what canon information we had for this period, and I really wanted that middle scene. I promise, we will get closer to all the implications of "There was only one bed" next time. 
> 
> For the record, it's about to rain on them. Thank you!  
> XX


End file.
